


If We Had Different Endings

by bkgrl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Crack Pairing, Cunnilingus, F/M, Half Sibling Incest, Multi, Mutually Unrequited, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bkgrl/pseuds/bkgrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of lengthier AU one shots for some of my favorite crack ship couples.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa/ Theon- Different Fairytales

**Author's Note:**

> Theon's denied marriage to either of the Stark girls. Suddenly the man that loves no one and feels nothing, finds himself trapped in circumstances he wasn't expecting. 
> 
> In this AU world King Robert waits before he comes to Winterfell. This is maybe four years past when the books start.

* * *

**_"Cruel places breed cruel people..."_ **

_(Sansa as a child)_

"Oh please Nan, tell it again," Sansa cried.

"Now, Miss. Hush, young ladies do not make such loud noises."

Placing the twine doll in her lap, the little girl looked up at the boney faced older woman and batted her eyes, "Please, one more time. I promise I'll go to sleep."

"Once more, dear…." She warned before she started again, "When the lady Elya was a small child-"

"No. Please, go to the part about the dragon and the knight…."

"A young lady should not interrupt."

"Please!" The little girl whispered.

Sighing, the nurse maid, motioned to the bed, "Lie down."

Scrambling from her seat, Sansa tucked herself under the heavy furs.

"When Elya was in the castle, a brave knight came to save her from the dragon."

"Was he handsome?" Her bright blues eyes peered out the mass of bed clothes.

"Yes."

"Was he kind?"

"Yes. All knights are kind and chivalrous, dear one."

"Did he love her?"  
"Yes, very much."

Flopping onto her back, she hugged the doll to her chin, "I want to fall in love…" she concluded, wistfully.

"And so you may."

"Will he be brave?"

Blowing the candle by the bed, she answered thoughtfully, "I don't know what your Lord husband will be like, Miss."

"Will he love me?"

"Yes, Miss. He will be honorable, kind and handsome."

"Will he save me?" She whispered in the dark.

Old Nan, hissed in exasperation, "Now what would he be saving you from?"

"I don't know…." Sansa confessed in confusion. Wasn't that what men were supposed to do?

"Enough questions. Go to sleep."

"Will I live happily ever after?"

"I hope so," the older woman answered before she closed the door, leaving Sansa with her girlish dreams.

* * *

( **13 years before** )

 A dark hair little boy sat crouched on the cold wet stones next to the fire, "Will you tell me a story, Sir?"

Balon Greyjoy looked down at his young son with a disapproving eye, "No. I don't have time for stories, boy."

Turning from his father, Theon, shrugged his shoulders in disappointment, annoying the haggard older man further, "You're not going to cry, are you?"

"No, My Lord," the little boy peeped.

"Good. Greyjoys don't cry." When the Theon didn't respond, he barked, "Did you hear me, boy? Look at me when I speak to you."

Slowly boy of eight, faced his father and hesitated, "Sorry, My Lord."

"Come here, boy." Tapping his ragged nails against the rough wooded chair, the older man patiently waited until his son was within reaching distance before he grabbed his wrist, pulling him forcefully, "There is no such thing as a fairytale, boy. You hear me?"

"Yes Sir," he whispered.

"You're weak. I question whether you came from my loins." Dropping his wrist he continued, "Ironborn men don't cower. Stop cowering."

Standing up the straight, Theon set his eyes on Balon, in response.

He paused, sizing up the small child, "Say it to me."

If the Theon didn't look so much like his mother, and a shadow of whom Balon Greyjoy was long ago, he would have never believed him to be his. He wasn't like his brothers. He was a soft and easily influenced.

"Ironborn men don't feel, My Lord."

"Yes, and what else don't we do?"

"We don't sow, My Lord."

"And why is that?"

The little boy hesitated, before he stuttered, "We f-fuck, we kill and we'll take, bow to no one, live free, and be die by the sea."

"Do we fear death?"

"No, My Lord."

"Good." Turning in disinterest, he finished, "Try not to be a disappointment."

* * *

It was unnatural for him to be here. He never forgot that. They could keep him in Winterfell for twenty years and he would always remember that he was Ironborn. It couldn't be beat out of him, trained or even persuaded with love.

He didn't belong here amongst these weak men: those who were ruled by honor and controlled through guilt. A Greyjoy didn't feel guilt. It had long since left the islanders after a hundred years of rape, pillage and eking a life out of a cold, barren land.

He'd never forget his father's voice: the last words he said it him.

_"It will not be your home. You are not a man of winter but of one of the sea. Hard places breed hard men and hard men rule the world."_

If it wasn't for her damn mother... Lady Catelyn Stark hated Theon almost as much as she hated Jon. In fact, she might have detested the bastard less. And for what reason, because he was a man and had appetites? What did they expect him to do? Live like a Maester while everyone else around him inherited their lordships, married, DID things with their lives?

If she would have kept her mouth shut. If that red, cold fish, hadn't denied his marriage to Sansa, he'd be back at the Iron Islands now.

"Wench," he muttered to himself under his breath.

What did she mean, by saying he was inappropriate? Was he any less of a match than some southern lord? No. He was Ironborn: at birth, twice the man of any mainlander. If they had realized that and let him marry one of their daughters for an alliance, he'd be home now.

If he was made to stay here like a house dog, he might as well make good on his 'animal' instincts. A pet they wanted, someone to train and pacify? He'd show them how 'trainable' he could be.

It had started as a simple act of defiance. A silent FUCK YOU, to their inflated pride and impenetrable honor. He was so unworthy for a Stark child? What made them so special? What made Sansa Stark so unique? She was just another warm cunt.

These were the thoughts that swirled around Theon's mind when he started his own rebellion months ago. He'd show them what he thought of their northern virtue.

The best laid plans...

* * *

"I don't feel anything." Pushing back on her heals Sansa's mouth quirked in question, "Am I suppose to feel something?"

"No. Not with me. It will be different with a boy."

Jeyne always knew everything. Sansa was thankful to have her as a friend. Without her, Sansa wouldn't know anything.

Septa Mordane would shame them to grave if she knew.

"Well am I doing it right?" Her lips were swollen from their session in the woods.

Jeyne smiled, "Yes. That's how you're supposed to do it. But when it's with a boy, it feels different."

"How would you know?"

Brushing grass from her skirt, Jeyne answered nonchalantly, "Theon kissed me once."

"Theon?" Sansa's face scrunched in disgust. "Ew, why would you kiss Theon?"

"He kissed me," Jeyne stammered in defense. "Besides, he's not so bad. He's handsome."

"But its Theon... He always says the grossest things. He kisses all the girls... and does other things too."

"How do you know that?"

"I overheard Robb once." She could see that she had hurt Jeyne's feelings as the girl hung her head, paying an exorbitant amount of unnecessary attention to her skirts.

"I'm sorry. You're right; I guess he's not that bad. What did it feel like?"

"It was nice..." she answered plainly, then smiled in response.

"Did you do it again?"

"No! I'm not some tavern girl."

Sansa hadn't seen Jeyne so defensive ever. She shouldn't have ever said anything about Theon. He was handsome. It was his mouth that was so disgusting. Jeyne should be saving her kisses for her husband, or some knight that paid her sweet compliments- brought her flowers and poems.

"You don't understand. You've never kissed a boy before."

Sansa hated when she did that. She couldn't stand being talked to as if she were a baby. Why did Jeyne always know more than her?

"Maybe someday I will."

* * *

The first time Theon kissed her, she wasn't ready. He'd found her in the glass gardens, waiting for Jeyne.

"Have you seen Robb?" He questioned as he leered down at her.

"No." Picking roses off the wall, she didn't bother to even look up.

"What are you doing?"

Her fingers slipped down the flower's base, avoiding the thorns, before she pinched her nails into the stem.

"Trying to break it off," she struggled against the plants, tough outer layers.

"Why?"

Looking up, she pushed hair from her eyes and answered, exasperatedly, "To make a bouquet."

Theon rolled his eyes for a moment, " _Women,"_ he thought _, "had they nothing better to do_?"

"You're doing it wrong. Here," reaching into his pocket he pulled out a blade and sliced through the stem, dropping the rose into her lap, "How many do you want?"

"Six." She answered cautiously.

Why was Theon being so nice? He was never nice to her.

Carefully, he cut the roses from the wall and dropped them one by one into her lap.

"Is that enough?" He questioned, stooping over her.

"Yes."

Offering her, his hand, Sansa hesitated for a moment before taking it. When he hosted her up, he left her little room to stand. Practically inches apart, he smiled, "Do I not get one for my effort?"

He plucked the rose she offered him, from her hand and slipped it through the loophole of his jerkin.

"How does it look?" He was almost jovial.

Sansa had never been this close to Theon Greyjoy. His eyes looked less leering then she remembered- his teeth whiter.

Before she could answer, his lips were touching hers. Warm and rough, they felt nothing like Jeyne's. But then again, he wasn't a girl, or a boy... he was a man.

"Incredible," was all he said as he pulled away. He left without another word: her flower tucked into button hole of his shirt.

Touching her mouth, that tingled moments before, she watched him go, "Yes," it was.

That kiss was the first of many secret ones to come. Not even Jeyne knew that Sansa continued to let Theon Greyjoy kiss her in private, whenever he chose.

* * *

( **Months later)**

Fat, thick flakes fell from the sky and covered the ground. It was the first snow of the season. Like the children of winter that they were, the Starks ran through the thin drifts. Red cheeked and bundled, they cupped the white powder in gloved hands, making snow balls and castles.

"Sansa!" Turning to Arya's voice, she caught a wet clump in the face.

"Arya! Stop it!" The wild little girl giggled and ran from sight, as Sansa wiped the cold clumps of ice from her eyes and chin.

"Sansa!" They seemed to be calling her name from every direction as Arya and the stable boy pelted ice chunks in her direction.

"STOP!" Sansa squealed as she ran for cover. Why must Arya ruin everything? She wished Jeyne was here and not in bed. She wished Robb were not too old to do things like this.

Hiding behind the large dark oak, she wiped cold water from her face and shook snow from her hair.

"She'd stop doing it if it didn't upset you so much." She looked up to find, Theon.

"Arya does, as she pleases." She snapped, as she shook ice from her cloak.

"You look cold."

Her face was bright red, from both the ice itself and impact.

"I'm fine," she stammered. He reached out, brushing warm gloved fingers over her wet cheeks.

"Your teeth are chattering. You're cold. Come here." He grabbed her arm pulling her in, under his cloak, before she could think to say no.

"Someone will see." She pressed her nose against his breastbone and bathed in the heat of his body.  
"Let them."

Finding her mouth, he pulled her into a hot, dry kiss- his fingers pressing hard against her ribs. It had always been their own game of hide and seek: one of stolen kisses, soft looks, half whispers, amid the threat that someone would discover them.

But in the last weeks, he'd become bold, kissing her in the open, daring to touch her in public. Twice, they'd almost been discovered by Arya. If Jeyne had her suspicions, she hadn't mentioned it. But Sansa sensed that Septa Mordane knew.

" _You must be on guard at all times. Young men and their devious intentions come in all forms."_

He pressed her against the oak, his hands dropping to her hips.

 _"Theon Greyjoy has slept with a dozen tavern maids."_ Jeyne hissed to her one day, when Sansa slipped and remarked on how she wondered if he'd be a good husband.

"Sansa!" They were looking for her. They could hear the crunching of snow, in the distance.

"I have to go." She whispered.

"Not yet," his hands fumbled through her hair.

"Come to me later this evening." She whispered as his lips found her neck.

"I can't. I told Robb, we'd go into the village."

Go into the village?

"You meant go to the taverns?"

"Possibly…."

She stiffed. He meant drink and allow baseborn girls to crawl into his lap.

"I have to go." Detaching herself from his wet mouth and eager hands, she stumbled away from the tree, followed by his words.

"Sansa. Wait. I'll tell him I can't go."

_"The Ironborn are not fit to be husbands… or men. They're a cruel breed." Her mother had once said._

"Come back." He felt a mixture of anxiousness and desperation.

What had started as a solid plan to prove a point had turned into something different. He'd lost control of the situation completely- was aware of it and was unable to stop himself, just the same.

"You promise?"

Theon's face, twisted for a moment. What was he doing making promises?

"No."

"Okay." Shrugging her shoulders she went to leave when he hissed, "Okay, I promise."

Sansa slowly walked back to where he stood, allowing him to pull her in again. "I hate promises," he murmured against her mouth.

"I know."

* * *

"Have you some new girl I don't know about?"

Pulling an arrow from the stack, Robb raised his bow before continuing, "Does Roslin know?"

"Roslin is not my girl, Robb. She's a whore."

"Who you used to see, more than most husbands do their wives."

Snorting, Theon examined his shot, "It would do you some good to see Roslin."

Robb's face dropped, "Don't change the subject. Something is different…."

"Different?"

He inspected Theon closely, "Yes different. Who is she?"

"Why are you so concerned with who my prick is seeing?"

Smiling, Robb confessed, "Just curious. I've never seen you so defensive. If I didn't know better I would think you were in love…." He teased.

"Greyjoys don't love. That's a weakness only you northerners have."

"Where do you disappear to everyday?"

"What are you my mother?" Theon snapped.

Shaking his head, Robb continued, "Very defensive. I wish Jon could be here to see Theon Greyjoy fall in love."

"I am not in love."

"Hm, whatever you say…. This evening, I was thinking that we could-"

"I can't go." Theon cut in.

"Can't go?"

"I have something I have to do."

Robb lifted an eyebrow, mocking him, "I see…. Is it really worth it?"

"What?"

"Coupling, it must be, because you act like a fool."

Theon smiled to himself, if only he was… if only Robb really knew, "Yes."

* * *

"Let's play a game." They had walked through the Godswood, deep into the forest where no one would find them.

"Okay, what is this game?"

The ice had melted, the snow gone. It had been 8 months since their first kiss. Lying on the ground, her dark red hair glowed against the white of the tree.

Picking a leaf, she examined the edges.

"It's called ‘what if’…."

"What if?" He reached out his fingers, twirling them around strands of her hair, absentmindedly.

"Yes, you start. Ask a 'what if' question."

Peering up at the canopy of trees, Theon began, "What if we didn't have to hide out here?"

"What if we could kiss whenever we wanted?"

"What if we didn't have to lie?"

"What if I touched you…" her fingers trailed over his face, to the crease that sometimes would form above the bridge of his nose.

"What if I let you?" He grabbed her hand, kissing her wrist, and then pulled her down onto him. Out here, there was no one to hide from. They could be themselves.

Against his lips, she questioned, "What if you left someday?"

They never talked about Theon returning to the Islands because it seemed so improbable.

"What you left?"

The same way they never spoke of Sansa marrying someone.

How long could they continue like this? Years? No. He couldn't do this for years. It was too hard. He'd never been forced to control himself so much with a woman. He'd never had reason to.

"What if we felt something more…?" Her words hung between them, ending the game as she laid her head on his chest.

" _What if I told you I did?" He thought, but never said and would always wish after that he wasn't too proud and did._

What if it never had to end? What if they could stay in their own little world forever?

* * *

A month later, King Robert came to Winterfell. Ned's announcement of her engagement, over Robert's reception feast, was met with applause and words of congratulations. Her husband to be, smiled at her with approval, Joffery Baratheon was handsome and pleasant enough. He'd be king someday- making her queen.

A fairytale of her own.

Then how come it didn't feel like one? Finding Theon amongst the crowd, he make eye contact briefly, nodding his head in solemn congratulations, before leaving his seat.

* * *

Maybe it was the seven tumblers of mead he'd had at the tavern, or the fact that he was out of coin before he could find a suitable woman to satiate him. It could have been the nagging fact that he was essentially a hostage, no matter how they tried to dress it up. He was four and twenty now. Had they not paid their penance for the rebellion years ago? Must he stay here forever? Never marry, while Jon has left and Robb is soon to wed, followed by Sansa?

**Septa's voice flitted through in the back of her mind, _"A marriage bed is to be sacred."_**

Slick lips slipped down her neck, teeth catching on the crest of her collar bone, fingers wrapping into her hair, at her waist.

He would surely hang if they found him. Lady Stark would ask for his head to be severed and spiked outside the gates. Robb would likely beat him bloody if he had the slightest notion of what was happening. But Theon's never been known for his caution.

He was doing her a favor. A woman without particular skills would never be pleasing to her husband.

He'd been feeding himself these same lines of rationale for months whenever he'd thought of working up the courage to do something more. The same excuses- in a vain effort to pardon the nagging feeling of guilt that had been following him around.

If it was wrong, if he knew that it was wrong…. Then why did it feel so good?

" _I'm a creep."_ He thought to himself, as the shift dropped further off her shoulders, and his teeth scrapped over bare skin.

Lemon and honey, her skin smelled like a tart and tasted like salt, from the sea of his early childhood.

It had been fun in the beginning, but somewhere in-between it had turned into something more. He couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to violate her- willing or not. His rebellion, the mental liberation of Theon Greyjoy, had ended before it began. They had trained him; trained him well, in the art of having a conscience.

**What was she doing? She was engaged. She'd be a queen some day. Sansa had only come to make sure he wasn't mad. Then again... what right did he have to be mad? Had he stopped seeing Roslin?**

**Honestly Sansa didn't know and hadn't asked... too afraid of the answer.**

" _Gods, you're pathetic",_ Theon thought bitterly, too many times to count. The damn Starks were rubbing off.

 _"She's only six and ten_ ," he reminded himself as his fingers looped through the neckline of the thin cotton, pulling it from the other shoulder.

**It wasn't her fault. There was no reason for her to apologize. He'd started it. What right did he have, going around, kissing her like she was his first, and treating her like she'd be his last?**

**Theon Greyjoy was dangerous. There was no escaping him: naughty or not. She could feel Septa's disapproving eyes on her and hear her mother's voice now, "THEON GREYJOY! Sansa... how could you?"**

**"It was just a kiss," She'd try to explain. But the taste of his lips... a dark and salty poison paradise.**

"Look at me, Theon." Her voice was soft and placid as she hovered above him. The kitchen of Winterfell had been abandoned for hours- everyone gone to bed, long before. She'd come from nowhere. One moment he'd been drinking alone, with nothing but the solidarity of his brooding thoughts and the next, she was standing in the door way.

Did she know what she was doing? What they were doing? He hardly knew. Fifteen minutes earlier, he was trying to muddle through conversation:

" _Are you drunk?"_

" _What's it, to you?"_

" _Roslin busy tonight?"_

_He smirked up at her from his mug, "Concerned are you?"_

He couldn't look her in the eyes, because he knew he'd find guilt. His only response was to pull the shift down further, till it hung against her breasts- threatening to slip to the ground. At any moment she would stop him. She was bound to push him away, blushing in shame.

Then again, she'd come to him.

" _Must you always look so pathetic?"She chided, as she stepped in front of him._

_Him, look pathetic? Who did she think she was talking to? He was simply having a drink- or 7. Not everything had to be about her._

" _Do you always have to be so annoying?" Shouldn't she be in bed, dreaming of her toe headed, baby faced, prince?_ _The sweet, dreamy eyed, Stark girl, was not as mild mannered as he had once thought._

Theon hesitated. If she was going to stop him, he'd wanted it to be now. He'd give her the chance to back out and reconsider what they were doing.

Nothing.

His face was close enough to her chest, that he could feel the heat. Purposely, he breathed against the white cotton, watching as her nipples hardened through the cloth. When she didn't stop him, he leaned forward, rubbing the hardened outline over the bridge of his nose.

She smelled heavenly.

 _"What the hell am I doing here?"_ The thought filtered through his mind as her hands found the base of his hair line, scrapping over his skull.

He was losing sight of whose game this was. Wasn't he supposed to be the predator? When had be become the prey?

" _You win,"_ he wanted to say, but stopped himself. Instead, he took a chance, leaned forward and began suckling her, through the shift.

"Theon." Her voice was heavy but calm.

Gently tugging on his hair, she drew his head back, till he was looking up at her.

"Yes?"

Was this it? Had she had her fill? Was she done, now that she could run back to Jeyne Poole and whisper how she'd kissed Theon Greyjoy once, too?

Sansa bent, taking his mouth. He hadn't been her first kiss. Of that he was sure. There was nothing fumbling or nervous about her mouth then, as there was not now. But who had she been kissing before?

He didn't want to think about that.

Her tongue danced over his, her teeth biting in his bottom lip, sending Theon over the edge.

Old habit. He wasn't a Stark. He'd had his fair share of women, not bothering himself with the restrictions or scruples of marriage.

This was dangerous. She was young- too young to understand. Maybe this was how Lord's daughter's entertained themselves, between needle point, music lessons and whatever other tedious things filled their long days.

Like clockwork, his hand where slipping under the hem of her shift, running up her calves, over knees, onto bare thighs. When they found the outline of small clothes he stopped.

She was looking at him, her blue eyes questioning what his intentions were.

His intentions?

He knew this was a terrible idea.

**Did he do with other girls? His every move was smooth and effortless, reminder her that he was more than experienced in what he was doing, prodding her sensible side to scream, "Yes! Don't be so stupid, Sansa."**

**But who were those girls anyhow? Where they with him now? Was he looking at them, as he was looking at her? Had he ever looked at anyone the way he looked at her these past nine months?**

A breath passed between them: questioning how to continue.

Auburn hair hung loose and scattered over her back and shoulders. Damn Joffery Baratheon! The little prick, prince, surely he was not deserving of this. Why was it that most undeserving men are blessed?

She may be his future. But he couldn't think of that. That caused feelings that Ironborn men shouldn't experience. And tonight, right now, right or wrong, the Gods were smiling on Theon- for whatever reason.

When he stood, the material hiked around her waist as his thumbs stayed pressed on against the ridge of her hips. At full height, Sansa stood was only inches shorter than him- their eyes almost level, locked in an intense gaze.

He should let go, now. Theon blinked. What was he doing?

**He was waiting for her to stop him, to tell him no or even to think of her future husband. But she didn't know Joffery Baratheon. She didn't know if he was kind, funny- honorable.**

**She knew Theon... He was none of those things to anyone but her. He was a crass lecher that would surely be toxic to her future. Sansa didn't care.**

Letting out a shallow breath, she quirked her eyebrow, "Roslin?"

 _"Roslin? Who cares about Roslin!?"_ He wondered."No," Theon swallowed hard, "For a long time."

"How long?"

"It seems like forever."

"Good."

**_Septa's voice, "Be on guard. A young man will say anything to have his way with you."_ **

Clearing his throat, he cautioned, "This could get me killed."

"I know." **Suddenly, Sansa felt like the most powerful woman in the world. Theon Greyjoy, the boy that pestered her, throughout childhood, had been rumored to have kissed, seduced or slept with every attractive female in Winterfell, was looking at her like she owned the world.**

**_"Virtue is the most important thing a maid has." Septa._ **

**He wasn't a prince. He most certainly wasn't a knight. If Theon Greyjoy were a character in a fairytale, he would, without a doubt, be the villain.**

"We should stop." He may have said the words, but he surely didn't mean them as his hands stayed firmly planted on her hips.

"I won't say anything."

That was all the invitation that Theon needed. If he was going to sin against the House of Stark, possibly piss off his best friend, and get himself skewered, he might as well commit the crime.

Gently he pressed her back against the table, her tailbone rested against the oak for less than a second before her hands grasped the front of his tunic: pulling him slowly back onto its flat surface, with her.

Brushing hair away, he tugged the shift down, exposing her.

GODS BE GOOD.

Her pale, Stark skin, looked like ice and felt like summer. She was curvier than the other Stark girl, her breasts full, her hips round.

His tongue leisurely rubbed against hers before he bent to her breast. Sucking in a nipple, his listened appreciatively to her sharp intake of breath- the soft humming noise she made as he kneaded and rolled the other between his forefinger and thumb.

Grabbing the shift, that had pooled beneath her breasts, he tossing it to the ground.

She was damp through her small clothes. Carefully he removed her small clothes before ducking his head between her thighs.

Theon had seen a great many cunts, in his short life. Many appealing, a few not, but Sansa's was truly one of the prettiest he'd ever witnessed. Pink and swollen with arousal, he parted her outer lips before running his tongue along the length of her.

Against her better efforts, Sansa let out a small moan, rolling her hips into him. Smiling, to himself, Theon quickly kissed the interior of each thigh, before he continued.

"Theon….” She whispered like a sin.

In less than a minute of him tasting her, her hands had found his head, clutching him closer- her legs shaking. She was close. If he didn't act now, she'd finish- leaving him with nothing, except a memory to inspire months of self abuse.

If he were Robb or Jon, he'd patiently let her finish, then apologize afterwards. Thankfully Theon Greyjoy was not a Stark and therefore not burdened with an intrepid sense of honor or selflessness.

Pulling back, he urged, "Sansa, sit up, dear."

Hazed, she wobbled slightly as she pushed herself up, on her elbows, "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?"

He smiled, "No. But I need you to do something for me."

"Okay."

Quickly unlacing his britches, he sighed, as the pressure from being erect against the confining cloth, was relieved. Exposed, he looked up to find her staring at him- eyes wide.

Had she never seen a man naked before?

"It won't bite."

"I know that," she answered none too convincingly. "Theon..."

"Don't worry. I won't do that. Give me your hand."

Guided her to him, he wrapped her fingers around his shaft, "Move your hand," he instructed, "Yes…."

His eyes closed in ecstasy, his head rolling back, as she continued. Gods be good. There was a reason he had stayed in Winterfell. This was well worth another year or two as their hostage and the months he had spent in celibacy.

"Am I doing it right?"

"Yeah," he groaned. Opening his eyes, he grabbed her by the hips and pulled her forward to the edge of the table.

"Theon..." she looked up at him through heavy auburn eyelashes.

"Yes?" He rasped.

Sansa hesitated for a moment, deciding if she should say what was on her mind, before finally starting, "Do I..." she bit her lip and furrowed her eyebrows together, "Was it…?" Not waiting for her to finished, he inserted two of his fingers inside and watched as Sansa's head dropped back, a moan spilling out of her lips.

Gods she was wet, if he could only put his cock where his fingers were.

"You were saying?"

Her voice shook, as she continued, "Does it look okay? I mean down there?" She blushed.

If he wasn't ready to go at any moment, Theon might have laughed. Sansa was too much. How could someone so sensual, be so innocent? She was rubbing him raw, on the same table they ate their morning meal, and her only concerned was if her sex was attractive or not?

Pinching the nub at the apex of her wet opening, he pulled her in quickly, heatedly kissing her."You have the prettiest cunt I've ever seen," he whispered, with raged breath against her lips.

Thumbing her in circles, she rolled her hips against him, as if it were more than just his hand between her thighs. Soon after, she clenched around his fingers.

"And the sweetest tasting..." he confessed, she as cried out in finish, causing him to spilled his seed over her hand.

Both were a sweaty mix of limbs and fluid, as she leaned against him, face buried in his chest. Now what? This was usually the point, where Theon would gracelessly pull up his britches, deposit a dragon on the bed side table and be out the door, before another word could be said.

"Could you hand me my shift?"

"Hm?" Red, red, red hair was all Theon could see. Lemon and honey was all he could smell, and her last sounds of pleasure had deafened him to all other sounds.

Feelings- a thousand feelings- none of which he wanted.

"My shift, Theon, it's on the floor."

"Oh." Handing her the wadded, heap of cloth, he watched as she calmly dressed herself and slipped off the table.

"You're just leaving?" The words came out before he could think to stop them.

Nonchalantly, she brushed the wrinkles from her shift, combed her fingers through her hair and answered, "Oh, yes, I forgot."

He waited for it, months of this exhausting game between them. His pulse slowed to a crawl as he held his breath.

 _"Please. Say it. If you would only just say it... then I would too."_ He thought.

Bowing her head, in a formal address, she finished, "Thank you, Theon. Good night," before she turned and walked away- on shaky legs.

"Take what you want." His mind pandered. Theon could hear his father now, "We fuck, we kill and we'll take- bow to no one, live free, and die by the sea."

But he couldn't take what he wanted. It wasn't his to have and that he understood.

Damn the Starks.

The feeling of brutal exposure had nothing to do with his being physically naked. Thirteen years he'd lived amongst them, here, and not for one moment did he forget he was Ironborn, or wish differently… until now.

It would never work. Her mother would sooner wed her to a prince, her father send her to the Sisters.

"Family, duty, honor," her mother's voice in Sansa's ears, as she shook on her way back to her chambers.

"We do not sow," Balon Greyjoy sharply warned Theon in the back of his mind, as he watched her leave and wished he had the courage to let himself feel- tell her it was more. It had always been more. That he loved her.

They were from different worlds of different fairytales….

* * *

 


	2. Sansa/ Aegon- If I could be Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sansa never left King's Landing for the Vale after Joffrey dies and instead hid in Baelish's brothel. Shamelessly AU.

**Porn with a plot. Bye kids... Warning: Sansa may be slightly out of character in some parts.**

* * *

Just before King's Landing falls, women flock about the brothel like a coup of chickens invaded by wolves. Stuffing items into their bags, trinkets, the few dragons they have to their names, they seek to flee the city before the forgotten prince comes.

"No," Sansa answered sternly, standing at the doors, blocking their exit."No one leaves. We'll wait this out as we have others before."

This is the second invasion in close to six years. First Stannis and now Aegon Targaryen the IV, rumored to be a day's march from the gates of the city.

"If we leave now, we can still survive!" One cried out, ten women deep.

"If you leave now you'll likely be robbed and raped on the road," She answered sharply.

"Alayne is right," Petyr called out, buried behind the mob of skittish whores. Parting they allowed him to make his way to the front until he stood next to Alayne. "You are all free to leave, of course. But I would advise against it. If the city is soon to be sacked, who knows what manner of people you'll meet on the road."

"It can't be any worse than some of our customers!"

"These men won't pay for your services," Baelish calmly replied.

It takes minutes more to convince the women to stay. That leaving would be foolish. Baring the doors, shutting the windows, the women wait in tensed silence as the events of the next few days play out. But when it's all said and done, Alayne was right. They were right to stay.

* * *

"You handled them well," Littlefinger commented, as he stood behind her, taking the brush from her stand and running it thoughtfully through his long auburn hair.

Five years Sansa has lived in the brothel as Alayne and in that time, she'd become nothing like the scared little girl that arrived late at night, shrouded in secrecy. Cersei was right; a woman's greatest weapon was between legs. However, where the good queen errored was the allowing of easy access to something valued.

"Foolish women," Alayne answered, removing her bracelets, earrings and other heavy bobbles.

Years ago, when she was still a child, Alayne was quickly cued in to Littlefinger's more sinister intentions for her. Late one night after too many cups of summer wine, he'd tried to kiss her in her solar. But stopped when she reminded him, " _If you say I am to be your daughter, then your daughter I shall be. And fathers and daughters do not do those types of things with one another."_ She'd shamed him so soundly, he'd never tried again.

It wasn't until she was six and ten that their relationship began to develop into a business friendship.

" _If you are my daughter, as we claim you to be. Then mayhaps you should start earning your bread."_

_Shuffling papers in front of her face, he passed her a quill and ink well. "It will be your job to keep the books. You do know how to add and subtract figures?"_

_Looking at the neat column of tiny numbers she responded, "Of course."_

" _Good. That is your first assignment."_

_It started with handling the coin that filtered through the brothel and paying their debts. Eventually it developed into her managing the girls._

"They've requested our services. The new king and his men. It should be a profitable few days." Soldiers and kings drunk on victory and rich with stolen spoils.

"I have business to attend to; therefore I will need you to handle this account." Meaning he feared showing face for chance of trail if the good king knew he was a member of the former queen's council.

"Naturally," she answered, patting his hand, "I'm tired Petyr, you may leave now."

She'd never spoken with clients before, or brokered deals face to face. In five years, she'd hardly ever left the brothel for fear of discovery.

* * *

"Too tall, too skinny..." moving down the line, the plump greasy haired man looked critically at each of the woman, approving any and all that would be selected to go to the Keep and entertain the men at the celebration.

Following him to the end of the line, he turned to Alayne and inquired, "Where is their provider?"

"Me, you can discuss arrangements with me."

"You?" He questioned, rubbing his face, eyeing her a little too close to be considered polite.

"Yes, me. I handle all requests for Lord Baelish."

Thinking over the absurdity for a moment longer, he finally answered, "A hundred dragons."

"That's less than five dragons a piece for each girl. No. Two hundred dragons, the girls pick their clients and I'll be accompanying them, along with our friend Brandon," nodding her head in the direction of the large foreign man standing in the corner, watching the exchange grim faced.

"One hundred dragons and your dog will be unnecessary."

"Two hundred and Brandon will go where the girls go."

The man snorted, obviously irritated, "Mouthy for a whore peddler, aren't you?"

"Two hundred and nothing less," she answered coldly.

"Too high. They aren't worth it."

Smiling, Sansa politely excused the women. Waiting for the girls to leave she walked to the door, "You are free to find another brothel. There are four others in the city."

Most empty, she knew. Their girls had fled before the invasion.

The man's face went purple, "This is for the king's service. If he commanded it, they would come for free."

"Then let him come here and attempt to command it."

Eventually he folds. Whether it was Brandon's presence or lack of other options, the king's broker agrees to her price and terms.

* * *

The first time he sees her, he's busy refusing services from the plethora of whores crowding the large room. She's sitting in the back of the hall, unaccompanied, watching the show unaware that he's watching her.

Beautiful, adorned in bright purple fabrics, her hair tied in knots. She garners the attention of many men in the room. But each that approaches is quickly dismissed.

Leaning into his adviser Rolly, he asks quietly, "Is she a whore?" Motioning in Alayne's direction.

"No, My Lord. She's their keeper."

"A woman?" He's intrigued. Aegon has seen a few brothels across the Narrow Sea while with the Golden Company, but never once has he seen a female brothel owner.

"She's Lord Baelish's daughter, My Lord."

"Yes, where is Lord Baelish?" The little man had been avoiding court and had yet to be seen since their arrival. Guards daily posted at the brothel report no sign of his presence.

"Bring her to me," he requested politely. "I'd like to question her about her father's whereabouts."

* * *

Some days Alayne wonders what her mother would think of her if she could see her now. No doubt, this is far from the future Lady Catelyn Stark would have envisioned for her daughter. But sitting again in the throne room, where years before she was stripped, beat in and humiliated, Alayne smiles to herself. She's survived. Mayhaps not the way her mother or father would have approved, but she's done it just the same. Cersei may have been a monster that haunted her childhood dreams, but she'd taught her well. Gave her wisdom Septa had never bothered to impart and her mother would have thought vulgar. Unknowingly, the deceased Queen Regent taught Sansa how to survive, her.

Sipping her Dornish wine she patiently watched the girls lure men in. Years in the brothel, she was no longer the maiden she was at three and ten. Although she's never taken a client before.

She was six and ten and he was a soldier, come to the brothel with the other men. He was quiet, shy, much like she. Young, he sought shelter because of insecurity, while the men picked their girls and were escorted to rooms.

Petyr would have been furious if he knew, but they'd met that night and carried on a friendship for months before he left for the Riverlands. Marching with the King's forces to stop Stannis's new wave of rebellion, she'd let him take her maidenhead the night before. In secret, on the roof of the brothel, he promised her afterward that he'd come back. That he'd save her from this place. That he'd love Alayne forever and they'd marry someday.

He never returned, was killed before he reached seven and ten. He became another, in a long line, of hard learned facts.

"Lady Baelish." She hated when they called her that. As if she was Petyr's wife, she's not. She Alayne Stone.

"The king would like a word with you."

As she approached his table, she observed that the rumors are true. He was remarkably attractive. The kind of man that poets wrote songs about.

Bowing, she politely asked, "How may I be of service, My King?"

Their conversation lasts hours as men slowly, one by one leave the throne room with girl in arm. He asked her all manner of questions, mostly about Petyr and if she knew of his whereabouts. When she had no answer, he seems to know she was lying but didn't bother to name her indiscretions.

When the conversation turned to her history, her life, Alayne became uncomfortable. Quickly changing the subject, she enquires about his origins although she already knows the story.

"You flatter me. You know of me the same as everyone in the Seven."

Alayne smiles politely, raising her eyebrow and dipping her mouth to her cup for another drink.

"However," he continued, "for all the talk. I've seen every Martell ever born and have yet to see one Stark."

Alayne almost choked on her wine.

"Your father originates from the Riverlands, does he not?"

"Yes, your Grace," she answered carefully.

"Unless I'm mistaken, did the late Lady Stark not come from the House Tully?"

Alayne's heart almost stopped. Did he know? Why she feels the need to still live in secret she doesn't know. However with all the Stark children dead, she's the only heir left to the northern lands.

"Yes, I believe so, My Lord."

"The Stark children lived for a time in King's Landing before their father's beheading. Did you ever meet them, Lady Baelish?"

"I'm not a Lady, my King. And no. Lord's children don't visit the brothels of King's Landing."

"But your father was Master of Coin, part of the king's council. Surely you visited the Red Keep?"

Plastering a fake smile on her face, she answered, "You seem to have a fascination with the Stark children, your Grace, if you don't mind me saying."

His lavender eyes, needle into her and for a moment she was sure he knew before he replied, "I guess you're right. Morbid curiosity….I hear they have lost their lands in the north and now the rival House Bolton has taken Winterfell as its seat."

Years past she'd heard murmurings from men that passed through the brothel, gossip that Ramsay had claimed her brother's crown. She preferred to consider it a lie, just another rumor from a land torn apart in the chaos of multiple wars.

"My adviser told me that he claims himself to be the King of North."

She neither knows if he is testing her or is genuinely making an attempt at conversation, neither she is impressed with.

Too many years in the brothel has given her two handicaps, the need to always secretive and a sharp tongue.

Smartly, she snaps, "He is no King," and quickly catches herself, "There is no King of the North, your Grace. For there is only one king of the seven and that is you."

Bowing her head in an attempt to reappear submissive, she concluded, "And I'm sorry to inform you, My Lord, but you will not meet a Stark in the Seven. The children were said to all have been slaughtered during the war."

A long moment passes between them, where she worries she's acted too carelessly, that he is suspicious from his careful inspection of her every movement. Finally he smiles, genuinely and replied, "There is only one King of the seven. Mayhaps it is for the best that boy king of the North did not survive."

Although there is no malice in his voice, something about the mention of Robb cuts through a weakness in Sansa's armor, forcing her to expend every ounce of energy at her disposal to stop herself from flinching.

"You must excuse me, your Grace. It is late. I have business to which I must attend."

* * *

"Secure his coin, before he leaves, no exceptions," she explains to Brandon.

"Yes Alayne."

Ducking into her private room, she quickly shuts the door, setting down the items in her arms, rubbing at the tension knotted in her neck.

"Customer?"

Standing in the shadows, his voice was enough to make her almost lurch out of her skin. She's seen him less than a hand full of times since their first meeting and each time is a surprise.

"Your Grace..." she forces herself to smile.

"Do you take customers?" There's a certain edge to his voice as he toys absentmindedly with the window treatment in the room. Years in the company of men have made his tongue blunt. Later he'll curse himself, blame his forwardness on drink or argue it was simply part of the inquisition to find Lord Baelish.

But Alayne Stone's bed partners have nothing to do with the politics of the realm.

"This is a brothel."

"That wasn't my question. Do you also take customers?"

Something about his presence was unnerving, even for a woman whom was use to overtly aggressive men.

"Strange question to ask a woman that lives in a brothel."

"You haven't always lived in this brothel."

"Oh really? And what would bring you to that conclusion?"

"You're educated, well spoken for, have a mind for figures. Whores aren't educated. They aren't Ladies."

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she needed a drink as he began their subtle game of cat and mouse. Taking a long, deep sip, she finally answered, "Mayhaps you do not know many whores and if you don't mind, your Grace... we prefer courtesans."

Before he could interrupt, she continued to make her point, "The merchant prince, Tregar Ormollen, keeps concubines that are some of the most educated women in manner and figures."

"Ladies, Alayne, he keeps fallen ladies."

"Lynesse Hightower is not a Lady," she scoffed.

"Lady Hightower, don't you mean Lady Mormont?" He stopped to see if she'd faultier with surprise, "Yes, I know a great deal more about politics of the Seven, matters small or large, then some would think. You seem to know an awful lot about matters of the realm for a brothel keeper."

Politely, she explains, "Only of those in a similar trade your Grace. You have your politics and news... we seem to have ours." It was a lame explanation that whores far and aboard seemed to have the same common knowledge of one another.

"Ladies..." he continued, like a dog on a bone.

"Which I am hardly. Mayhaps if you spent more time enjoying the services of our establishment and stopped allowing me to take up your precious time, then you would know of the quality of my girls."

Setting down her glass she moved for the door, "In fact, I can arrange a private showing of our selection if you please."

"No, that won't be necessary. You're stalling, My Lady."

"I am?"

Her hand stilled on the knob, as she projected a look that was so obviously reaching for innocence. Aegon found himself wondering how many men had fallen trap to that same look and why, if he knew it was all part of her show, it was making his thoughts scatter.

"Yes, you have not answered my question."

"And what would that be?"

"Do you take customers?'

"Who wishes to know?"

She can see she's ruffling his sensibilities with her continued evasiveness, for with each question where he attempts to ferret out her secrets, she's able to effortlessly outpace him.

"Your king."

"I thought you weren't seeking services."

"I'm not."

"Then you'll have to excuse me Sir, for I am confused."

"In what way?'

As she approaches, the ruffling of her silk dress became distracting. He finds himself following the curve of her hip, the length of her thinly covered legs.

"Well as my King its imperative I act in a manner becoming to your stature. However, you call me a Lady but then do not allow me to keep my modesty, as a lady should."

Although he's listened to every word, Aegon finds himself focusing more on her lips then their content.

"Your Grace?" Alayne coaxes, snapping him out of his trance. She's playing him and he's falling for it, shamefully so, as if he was still four and ten, a green boy and never been with a woman.

"You are a brothel owner; I hardly believe the question to be lewd in nature."

"Well you see, your Grace that may be where I would need you to clarify matters. You accuse me of mayhaps withholding by insisting that I am indeed a Lady. However you also acknowledge that I am a brothel owner. It would seem that I cannot be both."

Smiling broadly now, he sauntered across the room to the bottle she's left uncorked. Pouring himself a glass, he admonishes, "You're good. I must admit you are good," taking a drink, he finishes, "which makes me conclude that you are indeed, a Lady," just not like any he's ever met. So few women he's been around in his life. Mayhaps if he'd spent more than a night with any; he would find them all to be this way?

He guessed not.

From Septa Mordane, years ago, she'd learned the art of submission, "Then I must be if you will it be so, your Grace," she responds, taking the glass from his hands, her lips ghosting the rim before sipping its contents.

She's not sure why she's playing this game. His presence, his questions are dangerous. She should be shuffling him out of the brothel or sending him off to a pleasure room with as many women as he pleases. But each chance she gets to redeem herself, she fails, drawing him further into conversation.

"I do."

"Then you must excuse me, your Grace, for I cannot answer your question."

"And why is that?"

"An unwed Lady should be allowed some modesty, secrecy even in her private affairs, should she not?"

It's unexpected and comes so quickly it almost startles her when he breaks out in a hardy low laugh, "You win, very clever."

"If there is nothing else, your Grace..."

"You're father, Lord Baelish, where is he?" Same question, his favorite question to ask her.

"I don't know, your Grace."

"You've not spoken, written to him?"

"No."

"He's left you here alone?"

"I'll be fine."

"Seems unusual to leave you."

"Yes, well he didn't ask my permission."

"It's a man's world."

She's close enough that the hairs on his neck are standing on end. "Yes, well, your Grace," she reached up unexpectedly, almost inappropriately brushing hair from his eyes, "It may be a man's world," she breathed against skin, "but it wouldn't be anything without a woman."

As quickly as she's snuck up on him, drawing Aegon into her little world of soft words, blue eyes and warm hands, she's gone. Turning briefly back before she passed through the door, over her shoulder she concludes, "So nice of you to stop by, your Grace. Let me know if you change your mind about a girl."

* * *

In the weeks after that first conversation he comes to the brothel. Accompanied by men, they are free to seek services while he seeks Alayne's company. Under the guise of questioning her about her father's whereabouts, he spends most every evening with her prompting Daenerys to eventually question his intentions, warning him that his bride Arianne Martell will be in King's Landing before the leaves change, to unite their houses.

Aegon insists he's seeking out information about Lord Baelish, in an attempt to foil any plans Lannister sympathizes may be concocting.

" _Can you not have a guard visit the brothel and question the madam?"_

He continues to make excuses. But Daenery's is no one's fool. He doesn't go for information. He doesn't go to preserve any peace. He leaves every evening and doesn't return until close to day light to see a woman, to start wars instead of broker peace.

But Aegon's stubborn. Her nephew has always been, even more so with the passing of Jon Connington and not a word she says about fostering good relations with the house Martell seems to matter.

Never once when he goes to the brothel however, does he make a purchase or inquire after a girl. Into the late hours of morning he sits with the Lady Alayne talking. Of what? Mostly nothing, anything that suits their fancy. The fire haired merchant of women is a riddle. He knows not if she ever speaks a truthful word of herself, but of other matters always. She's mayhaps the only person, other than Daenerys who's ever painfully honest with him when he asks for it.

"Do you ever consider returning to the Riverlands and your father's people?"

"No."

"For the best, mayhaps," he answers sympathetically, "Lord Bolton seeks their support in holding the north." Words always slipping off his tongue that he shouldn't be saying. As she desires to hide details of her life, he should be carefully guarding secrets of state, his true feelings of houses and lords. But after a few glasses of sweet summer wine and hours of her soothing tone and understanding smile, he finds himself saying things that should potentially not even be spoken to his advisers.

"But he will not?" Maybe it's her interest in the affairs of the realm, things north of King's Landing that prompts him to do it. Part of him wishes to please her. And mayhaps she knows this information already. With men of the council, lords of visiting houses and others of elevated station darken the brothel's doorways, he's sure that more than a few secrets of state are spilled in sweaty exhaustion in the arms of fair faced women whom are paid to listen and care.

Alayne was right. The whores of her brothel were most likely more educated on the affairs of the realm than any Lady of court, more appraised of troop movements and unrest, than any spy slithering through the halls of the Red Keep.

"No. The North will never be their own kingdom."

"And why is that Aegon?"

Neither remembers the point when they stopped using titles for one another. She only addresses him formally now, when she's hiding something.

"North of the Neck is almost more property than the entire southernlands. To give the northern freedom would only encourage other houses to do the same."

"Did the Northern king not fight for their freedom and win it?"

"Ramsay Bolton fought for nothing."

"No, I mean to boy King, Robb Stark? Was that not his name?"

"The Starks are dead, Alayne." He wonders sometimes if she's lied to him about knowing the Stark children. It's subtle, but each time the House Stark is mentioned, her lips trembled slightly, her hands fidgeting as if she's remembering someone in particular.

Mayhaps she was there the day they executed Lord Stark in public.

When there is a knock on the chamber doors, she leaves for a moment, discussing some matter of business with a strange man in the hall. Men seem to always be banging on Alayne's door, all hours of the night. Prompting Aegon to think to suggest that she keeps a guard, mayhaps he should offer his own.

When she returns, her face is flushed as if she's been arguing.

"Something wrong?"

"Business, your Grace."

"Mayhaps you should consider having a guard… it cannot be safe for you to stay here alone. With all manner of strange men wandering in and out of your establishment."

"We are safe enough, your Grace."

"Who was the man?" It's irrational, this is a house of business, but every time a man leans her way, seeks to speak with her, eyes Alayne in a way that's a little too long to be considered polite, he feels a rash of irritation.

Maybe it's because she's now become a friend, mayhaps the only friend Aegon's truly had since Old Griff's passing.

"A customer."

"Of yours?" He questions, attempting to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

"Yes, your Grace, they're all my customers."

He's questioned her before and never has she answered. Why he has such an irrational need to know if she too sells herself, he has no idea. But the thought of it makes him sick.

"That's not what I meant."

If he is, he's seen his face. Aegon could track him down; send him to the Wall, to let those who've taken the black warm him at night.

"I know."

Alayne considers lying to him, ending these thoughts of his. She sees the way he looks at her and regretfully finds herself doing the same. If she says yes, she'd surely drive him away.

"As your friend, I ask you Alayne, do you sell yourself?"

"Why does it matter?"

He doesn't answer because they both know he doesn't have to. It matters, more than either is willing to admit.

She should lie.

But she can't.

Polite as the proper lady her Septa raised her to become, Alayne answered, "No."

When relief floods over his face, she explains, as cunning as Cersei taught her to be, "No man could afford the price."

Intrigued, Aegon leaned in, far too close for comfort, asking, "What price would be high enough?"

Opening her mouth, six years of learned feminine tricks poured off her tongue, "Too high for even you to pay."

Laughing at her sharp wit, releasing the undeniable fever pitch of sexual tension between them, he responds in subtle challenge, "Am I not king?"

She should be insulted at his righteousness, her childhood breeding as a Lady commanding her to call offense, "Do you try to always command women into your bed?"

"Mayhaps," the silver king answered, enjoying their game.

"Then I must not be missing anything special," she retorted, eliciting another immediate laugh. She could feel his leg against hers, so simple and erotic, as heat spreads through her limbs, pooling between her legs.

"Say I was interested," he started innocently, "not for my own sake."

"Then you'd be lying and the only thing worse than a desperate man, is one who would lie," she sweetly snapped.

"You're impossible."

"Family quality…."

"And what family would that be?" He's struck again too close to home.

Leaning in, she's well aware that her Braavosi inspired dress leaves little to the imagination with its deep neck line. And beyond his straining control, she caught him following the curve of her neck, his gaze lingering poignantly south.

"That information, costs even more."

"Why have you not married?"

"Why have you not?" Alayne throws back. He's mayhaps only four to six years older than her, almost middle aged and he is without wife or child.

"I will..." He answered, so quietly she almost doesn't hear him.

"Arianne Martell. She's rumored to be a great beauty."

"Mayhaps for other men's tastes." Any man's taste. It was whispered that Arianne Martell could seduce any man from the Wall to Essos. With olive skin, dark hair, eyes and able features, she'd led more than one man to complete destruction.

"And what would your tastes be, my King?"

"Something else," he replied seriously, looking into his glass. A long period of silence passed between them before Alayne offered, for no apparent reason other than she sometimes felt the need to share with him things she hadn't ever with others, "I was supposed to marry once."

"And where is this man now?"

"Dead," she commented, flatly.

"War?"

"Poison." The word, usually foreboding, sounds like music in its sinister sweetness.

"Did you love him?" He responded, attempting to sound disinterested, but failing.

"No."

"Have you ever loved?"

"Once."

"And he? What became of this man?"

"Dead." Aegon smiled, from the secret relief that he was no longer out there. That the mysterious woman with red hair, blue eyes, that always wore flowing fabric and smelled of summer and love, held no affection for another man.

"Poison?"

"War."

"Seems that you're ill for a man's well being."

Rising from her seat, Sansa leaned across the table, reaching for the wineskin. She's close enough that he can smell magnolia oil on her skin, making his mouth water, "Now you know my secret."

Inches from his face, he stopped himself from lunging forward, kissing her, pushing her back over the table, committing every salacious act he's been thinking, as odd papers, trinkets and glasses would scatter to the ground. Swallowing, he tries to refocus his thoughts, "I do? And what is that?"

His hands dig into the wood of his chair, in a feeble effort to control himself as she moved in seductively closer, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, "The price... It's your soul."

* * *

It's close to a month later that Baelish returns. And to his surprise, the King is waiting at the brothel only not for him.

His trial takes place only days later. Although he's spared death, he's banished from the Seven, along with the rest of the council. Petyr eyes Alayne from across the great room, knowing that it's maybe the king's favor of her that's saved him.

Afterwards, he packs a few items at the brothel, giving a few short instructions about where he is going and how long he'll be there. Then finally, says the thing he's been thinking, everyone's been thinking, but no one yet has the courage to say.

"He'll not marry you. You're nothing but a distraction for him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sansa," for the first time in close to five years he uses her real name, "Stay away from Aegon Targaryen, you'll do nothing but make enemies. And I won't be here to protect you."

"He's nothing to me."

Littlefinger was unconvinced, "You two not cannot be together. He is a king you are a whore peddler, my dear."

Indignantly she returns, "I am Sansa Stark, the last in my House. And the only heir to the crown in the North."

"If you would like to stay alive, you will never be Sansa Stark again. The Bolton's catch wind of you, you'll be dead and not even your king will save you. He hates the Starks, is just as obsessed with them as his crazy grandfather."

There's a sense of urgency, as someone knocks on the chamber doors.

"If you are ever in need of anything, send word to me and I'll cross the Narrow Sea."

"And likely die."

"For you sweetling, I'll take the chance. If anything happens. Anything at all... run. You'll know where to find me."

Alayne wasn't sure if this was the gesture of a man of scorned affections or that of a father. She chose to believe the later, which only made her remember her own.

When Aegon arrives at the brothel later that night, same as usual, she asks him for the first time, the thing she should have addressed long ago.

"Why do you really come? My father is gone."

The beautiful silver king smiled unapologetically, "For you."

"I'm not for sale."

"And neither are my affections."

Alayne didn't know whether it was the idea of Petyr leaving, the last piece of her family (even if the whole thing was a sham) or whether it was the way he slowly worked his way under her skin. But before she can think on it further, they're kissing and her dress is slipping off her shoulders, while she fists his tunic.

When he has her pressed against the wall, he hesitates, causing her to comment, "You're not my first."

Aegon kissed the corner of her mouth, answering, "I'll be your last."

Hands slide down the fabric of her dress, mimicking the movement of his tongue and Alayne is sure that she's entered into the worst situation possible. But doesn't care. Like the foolish girl she once was, she murmurs incoherent things as his hands glide over her neck, unfastening the knots at her that hold her dress.

She hasn't been naked in front of a man in years, but all that seems inconsequential as Aegon spins her so her hands and forehead press against the wall. His knuckle traces her spine, from nape to base.

"What do you want?" She whispers almost confused, afraid she'll do something wrong.

He laughs, low and soft, as his hand slides over her waist, till he's pulled her so close that it's difficult to tell where he begins and she ends.

Slowly he turns her shoulders till she's facing him. Lavender eyes thwart off her questions, as he presses her back against the wall, hands sliding off her small clothes.

"To fade into you," he whispered against the shell of her ear, the bridge of his nose tracing her pulse point. Kissing the hallow of her collar bone, his hand cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb.

Breaths become erratic as his mouth replaces his fingers, which slide south past her navel. When they tease her entrance, Alayne moans, ripping at his tunic and trousers.

There's a sense of urgency, in her movements. If they aren't quick she might remember the things that Petyr warned her about. She might realize its Alayne that he's whispering against her skin as his fingers sink into her, not Sansa. He'll never call her Sansa because Sansa Stark is a potential enemy to the King, not a lover.

"Eager…" he teased against her breast.

"Shh…." She responds, untangling the laces, pushing the stiff cotton down, hitching her leg over his hip. Cupping her bottom, his hands trailed along the length of her calf, past her knee up her thigh before he gripped the soft flesh, pushing it up to meet the other.

A mix of tongues, lips and teeth, she glided against the wall, his hands biting into her hips. There'll be teeth marks, welts and bruises tomorrow.

He's hard against her thighs, waiting for her permission. Taking the initiative, she took him in her hand, guiding him into her. Somewhere, wherever her Lady mother may rest, she's rolling over in her grave (like she hasn't a million times already) as Alayne moans openly, when he pushes into her.

Their pace ungulates from hard and rapid, Alyane's tailbone slamming into the wall, to slow and affectionate. Labored breaths, blue and lavender eyes searching each other, brief and lingering kisses, both wishing more than anything they could crawl under the other's skin and stay there forever.

When she comes, her toes curl; sweat drips down her neck, sliding between her breasts. She's scratching hard enough that she knows she must be drawing blood, but he seems undeterred as buries his face into the hollow of her shoulder, letting out a long and low groan- spilling himself inside her.

In exhaustion, he slides to the ground, taking her with him. Folding on his knees, she rested in his lap, both clinging to the other.

"You should go," the sounds of footsteps through the hall, customers coming and going bring Alayne back. She's playing with fire and bound to get burned.

"Do you wish me to go?"

Alayne should answer yes and disentangle herself from this pleasant dream.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

* * *

They continue in their own private world for months. Long, sweaty nights and soft morning smiles until the announcement of Arianne Martell, Aegon's contracted, soon to be wife.

They go days trying not to discuss it, pretending like it's not happening but it's useless. They both know he'll marry her because he must. He'd entered an agreement with her house to win the war. To deny the contract now for a woman who runs a brothel, will likely start another war that Westeros would not survive.

The day the rest of court arrives for the wedding, Alayne is sitting in Petyr's small room- her room now, counting the month's figures.

"Sansa," her old name comes out so soft; she thought she had imaged it. But when she looks up to see a lithe, dark haired woman standing in front of her, longsword strapped to her back, a metal plate adorning her chest, fear springs into her chest. She's been found.

"That is not my name," she answered quickly, staring at this strange young woman who was threatening but still strikingly familiar.

"And I am no longer Arya." She replied, causing Alayne to drop her quill, splashing ink over her work.

"Arya?"

"Sansa?" The woman challenged, eyebrow quirked, a small smile spread over her lips. Looking into her sister's grey eyes, Sansa springs from her seat, leaping over the table embracing the little girl she thought was dead.

"You've come…" She cried. "How did you find me?"

"I have my ways."

They talk for an hour of nothing really because neither is willing to speak of their separate dark pasts. Finally, when night nears, Arya tells her sister the thing, Sansa fears. "I can't stay. I have commitments, as do you."

Before Sansa can question what she means, Arya finished, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," answering whatever questions, Sansa had as to where they should go from here.

She begins to tell her that she can't leave. That the brothel is hers and the women are her responsibility but Arya won't listen.

"There's no one else left."

"The Boltons…"

"Will soon be dead. I've not come back to let Ramsay Bolton sit in Robb's seat."

Sansa thought about leaving Aegon and her heart began to race. The inevitable end that they both refuse to mention. His bride was here, in King's Landing now. And soon he'll be wed. Later he'll be a father. And sooner rather than later, Alayne will have to forever be forgotten in his mind.

But Alayne's practicality is starting to fade in Arya's presence and for the briefest of moments, Sansa is still peaking through, "Can you not?"

The look her sister gives her, almost shames Sansa to her core. That she would deny her right to take back the north, bring honor back to their house.

"No. I can never stay again," Arya half answers in such a solemn way that wistfulness is shut out and a Stark steps forward. Her sister had some commitment she will not mention, something powerful to bind her so strongly that she would not stay and take Winterfell for herself. A promise that left Sansa as the only Stark left.

"Then when?"

"You and I will leave in two days time. The day of the wedding."

Her fate is sealed.

* * *

Pieces of silver hair fall to the floor as the black blade passes carefully through each strand.

"You don't have to do this." He murmured quietly, his expression so blank in the reflection that he almost doesn't look like himself.

"Someone should... I always preferred it short." She smiled.

Reaching up, he grabbed her hand, stopping her ministrations. "Say what you wish. Say anything, just as long as you stop pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That you don't feel anything."

Watching each other in the mirror, both know the situation is hopeless. He'll marry Arianne Martell because he must. The price of the kingdom he's won.

"And if I did? Would it change a thing?"

"Yes." He answered eagerly. Turning to face her, he offered, "Let's run together. Marry across the Narrow Sea. I'll work as a sellsword or trader and you can stay home with the children."

"Children?" Thoughts of the pretty picture he paints. She had fantasies of this once, years ago, marrying a beautiful man, having a half dozen children. Sansa, not Alayne, use to dream of being a Lady, living in a castle with beautiful things and perfect memories. But that was when she was a child. Long before she understood the realities of life.

"Yes. As many as you want." He responded, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"And what would become of King's Landing?"

"Daenerys can have it. Marry any of the Martells she pleases and spend the rest of her days fighting rebellions and tedious politics."

"It's a beautiful dream..." she confessed, "but it's just a dream, Aegon."And Sansa can dream no more than Alayne. Sansa Stark has a life to rebuild and her own seat to claim.

" _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_ ," she thought to herself and for the first time in six years didn't wish to go home but knew she must.

When he opened his mouth to protest, explain to her how it isn't a dream, she stopped him, "I told you, I was trouble…."

"This isn't the end for us."

But it was, she'd cheat herself of this because there was more. Sansa Stark was always meant for more than to be someone's mistress… even a King's.

"But it isn't a beginning."

Leaning down Sansa kissed Aegon before he could tell her what she already knew but was afraid to hear. Because if she did, she might be foolish enough to change her mind. Sansa might start to believe once more in fairytales and happy endings.

Their coupling lasts all night, into the early morning. Despite her best efforts to stop him, he tells her regardless. Each time they kiss, he whispers, "I love you," promising things could be different. She remains unconvinced, knowing a truth he has yet to discover: they'll soon be enemies.

It's not until they lay quietly afterwards that he knows Alayne will never change her mind. That he's lost and there's nothing he can do.

It's cruel. The man that has everything will never be able to keep the thing he wants most.

Curled around each other in the early hours of morning, he tucked her into the space between his chin and shoulder and knew that Arianne Martell will never smell, taste or feel the same. He'll never love her this way, or any woman.

"Alayne?"

'"Hm?" She mumbled softly, half asleep already.

He could feel a sharp twinge of loss come over him, the words catching in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He can't give her up. Maybe he was no better than his father, willing to give up a kingdom for something that wasn't meant to be his.

Finally, he managed, "I've paid the price... in full."

* * *

The morning of his wedding, Varys visits him in his chambers, coming to offer felicitations. When he finds him grim faced, he knows the reason before he can even attempt to explain.

"They'll likely not win."

Fumbling with his jerkin, he stops, looking up, waiting for him to continue.

"Even with the aid of House Tully. The Boltons seem to have swayed the northern bannermen."

"Who?"

"The Starks."

Continuing the tedious process of readying himself for the ceremony, he simply answered, "The Starks are all dead."

"Who told you that?"

"Everyone."

The Spider smiles, the same simpering grin he always gives when he knows something.

"What do you know?"

"Whispers from little birds. I thought you knew, your Grace. Is that not why you spent your evenings at the brothel?"

Aegon's face goes flush, as the Spider continues, "Your life, your Grace, may not be as secret as you may have thought it to be. You will not find Lady Alayne at the brothel this evening after your ceremony. She's left King's Landing."

Aegon's hands began to sweat, the blood rushing to his ears, "And gone where?" He practically shouted.

"North with her sister."

"Alayne has no siblings."

"No, but Sansa Stark does."

In the years that would come, Aegon would never quite recover. Jon Connington was right. He was always right. The Stark's were dangerous. They always had been.

He'd never trust his judgment again. He'd never stop questioning if it was real. If what they felt was true or if it was all a lie. Part of an act Alayne had learned long ago from women schooled in crafting love from nothing.

* * *

Weeks later, the northern rebellion ends with the Stark's taking the throne. Alayne, now Sansa Stark, sits in her father's seat with her half brother at her side and everything feels as it should.

Except for one thing.

Maybe she should have truly forgotten her past. Sansa should have not listened to Arya. She should have forgotten her father's words. Her mother's pride.

Victory comes at a price. And although she becomes queen, something years ago she dreamed of, she errored in her prayers as a child. Her requests, answered by the Seven, should have been more specific because if they were she would still be queen but the right queen.

Instead of blue roses adorning her head, she'd have southern laurels.

Instead of silence in haunted halls, with her sister long gone back across the Narrow Sea and her half brother traveling to the Wall, she'd have children's laughter to fill her ears.

Instead of an empty cold bed, she'd have someone to share her nights.

Instead of duty and pride, she'd have love.

Instead of Sansa, she'd be Alayne and have Aegon.

But instead, now she waits. Not for a lover. Not for a friend. Sansa looks to the horizon for King, coming to reclaim a land. The crown that is hers, has always been hers.

Mayhaps she should have been more specific in her dreams or less cunning in her lies.

Mayhaps… But their fates were sealed long before and would remain long after.

So she waits….

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**

 

 


	3. Jon/ Arya- Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya finds Jon at the Wall after eight years and its not until after Val comes to the Castle Black that Arya finds a reason to speak.

 

" _Mine." Her voice called to him in a thousand directions._

" _Mine. Mine. Mine. You've always been mine."_

___________________

 

He’d remember it clear as day for as long as he lived. Outside Castle Black, the wind howled so loud it sounded as if a giant rattled the ancient castle.

“The Others come for us on a night like this,” Samwell grumbled with each pound upon the wooden doors.

Hundreds of men sat in the dinning hall, mouths full of stew, grabbing greedily at bread found at each table. Each and every one of them fearing what may lurk in the blistering wind and darkness outside their firelight rooms.

The crash was loud enough to wake the dead, as a black beast burst through the heavy oak doors. Rearing up, the animal looked ravenous, pawing at the ground, head snapping to and fro.

Men had fallen from their seats, reaching for their swords as they scrambled on the ground. From the black beast slid a body, small and lithe. Covered in dark furs, men rushed toward the small person but were stopped when a blade was pulled in defense.

“Who are you?” Jon called from the back of the room, approaching the intruder with caution.

Removing the furs, long dark hair spilled out over boiled leather, a pair of dark grey eyes staring back.

His breath caught in his throat, it had been eight years, but as sure as he was of his own name, Jon Snow recognized the woman before him.

“Arya?”

Without a word, she shook her head to answer yes, but was stopped as he rushed forward, embracing her hard enough to crack ribs.

“You’re alive,” he whispered close to a dozen times, as hundreds of men watched the rigid Lord Commander crumble with unchecked emotion.

__________________

 

When she found him at the Wall it was clear that she had changed. The loud, little girl that followed him throughout the yards of Winterfell, crawled into his bed at night, and clung to him before he left to join The Watch, was now gone. In her place is a solemn woman. Always watching, always aware, Arya tracked his movements around camp, like a wolf stalking its kill.

During the days, he’d show her all of Castle Black. But she seemed uninterested always looking north to the Wall and anywhere else where Jon may be. As if she could sense his worries, better than he could himself.

_________________

 

"Where have you been?" He asked, one night across the fire. Desperate for answers as to why she hadn't found him sooner, why she's changed, he can't help but question.

Arya gave her customary response: no response.

At night when Jon sleeps, he dreams of the little girl that he remembered and loved from so long ago. But sleep comes to him in a restless fit, for with those dreams come other, strange ones, of this new woman. Dreams of her silent mouth pressed against his. Her small hands, searching through the layers of his cloak, as Arya speaks the only word he wants to hear from her mouth: Jon.

_____________________

 

She's his sister. He avoids her days after these heavy mixed dreams; weigh laid with feelings of guilt.

When Val comes into camp, with a small band of Wildlings, carrying news from beyond the Wall, Arya says her first word: No.

"This is your sister?" Smiling, the blond, motioned to Arya: demeaning her in judgment. Dirty in her tunic and britches, with a heavily soiled cloak, clumps of hair cling to Arya's face.

"No." She answers, before Jon can reply. Standing too close, smiling a little often, his behavior causes a stir in Arya. Feelings that she's repressed for years, ideas that she hasn't considered since entering the House of Black and White, come flooding back. Who is this woman who looks at Jon as if she knew him? Who is she to approach so possessively, to question who Arya was?

The mysterious woman ignores her answer and turned her attention back to Jon. "I was hoping that I could seek your counsel alone."

_________________________

 

When weight sinks down on his chest, his eyes snap open in surprise.

"Arya! What are you doing?"

He's hasn't seen her dark hair down since they were children. Flowing over her shoulders, it covers the skin exposed by her ill fitting shift.

"Shh…" Shifting her hips down further, she rocks against him as her mouth touches his.

Precise, warm, and eager, her tongue slips through his bewildered lips and flicks against his own. Pressing her shoulders back, he can feel her teeth, still against his, as he answers, "No. We can't."

"Shh…" she responds again. She grabs his wrists, forcing his hands to run over her bare thighs. Beyond his control, Jon can feel his cock harden, as the pads of each digit curve over her bare bottom and trace over her rips.

Discarding the shift, he looks now at this naked woman that was once his sister. For the sin he knows he is committing against the Old Gods, Ned and the House Stark, he tries to force himself to look away. But he can't.

"Here," cupping his hand to her breast, she pushes her taut nipple against his palm. Under the flicking light from the hearth, he can make out small silver scars, painted over her body. Where had she been? What had happened to her, to keep her silent for so long?

With his free hand, he traces the serrated skin on her ribs.

"No." Removing his hand, she placed it against the firm inside of her thigh.

The moisture in Jon's mouth and throat goes bone dry. Even if he wanted to speak, he couldn't. All coherent thoughts have left his mind- the energy expended southward.

Leaning in, again, she takes his bottom lip between her teeth. Her hips roll against the thin layer of his small clothes, the moisture seeping through.

"Arya…" he half murmurs, half growls- but mostly prays.

Reaching between their bodies, she tugs his small clothes down his hips. Taking his cock in hand, she runs her fingers across the moist slit.

"Fuc…" A series of indiscernible curses filter out of his mouth as she continues pumping her hand over the length of him.

He knows he should stop this. He should be thinking of Ned or Robb. What would they say? He should be considering his oath. He should be considering the fact that what he was doing was a sin before the Old Gods and New. But he couldn't keep a full thought. Jon hasn't felt this good -ever. Even with Ygritte, although enjoyable, it never felt like this.

When she dipped her hand between her own legs and touched herself. Arya's back arched momentarily. Spreading her slick heat over the head of his cock, she replaced her hand with his, between her thighs.

Wet, warm and soft, the feel of her was intoxicating. Her rocking quickly brings him over the edge, like a green boy. Spilling his seed into her hands, Jon almost started to apologize when Arya leaned forward, taking his mouth again.

"Mine," she whispered against his lips.

Pushing her head upwards, he latched on to her breast like a child to mother- in complete worship.

"Mine," she repeated, as her hand worked behind her, stroking him again.

Her wetness spread over his lower abdomen as she continued grinding. Licking his ear lobe, she teased, "Fuck me, Jon."

"No," he answered in haste, the words coming out of her mouth, seductive and sweet, even in their lewd content. He couldn't take her. Arya was his sister. It should be wrong….

Snapping her hips against him, in rhythm with her stroking, she'd brought his cock back to full attention.

"Do it," she ordered this time. And without waiting for his reply, she rose up and sunk down onto him.

"Hells!" Jon shouted out, as she clamped around him like a collar on a dog. Lost to right or wrong, he answered her request with full force. His fingers kneed into her hips, eliciting a yelp as he guided her movements.

Catching his eyes, she called to him, "Mine. You’re mine."

Reaching out, she ran her fingers through his shaggy, dark hair. "Say it, Jon. Tell me."

This was the moment he should correct her. A different Jon: the Jon that was Ned Stark's son, Robb Stark's brother and a man of the Watch, would say no. But Jon's never felt as connected to that man, as he does to this one.

Stilling her hips, a long moment of silence as gasps of breath passed between them. Who were they anymore? The faces they put on for other people, the things they pretended alone at night didn’t leave them feeling empty.

He realized then why she had stayed silent for so long. She was tired of the act, just as much as he.

Slowly he pulled himself up, so that they were face to face, both sets of grey eyes search the other. His words are hot and sincere against her lips, as his arms wrapped around her, "I missed you,” eight years flash by in three little words. He missed them all, but never like her.

Neither moved as they searched the other's face, finding what's been misplaced, wrong, for too long. This time her lips are less hasty, but just as needy, when they brush against his. When her tongue touches his, it’s not commanding, it's inviting.

"I love you, Jon," she whispers back, as he guided her hips against his, once again.

Moving slower this time, their touches are surer, more affection. Clinging to one another, he can feel her clenching around him again. Bringing his hand between their bodies, he thumbed the nub at the apex of her thighs, sending her to a wet, violent end.

Lips pressed against her temple, he spilled himself inside her, answering, "Yours. "

Hands knotted in hair, limps tangled, still joined, they cradled one another, for minutes, absorbing the only feeling of peace, perfection, that either has ever known.

They were all that was left, standing on the edge of nothing, ready to jump off and wander together.

"Always been yours," he whispers, burying his face into the crook of her neck, “I love you.”

The world might be a wreck, but somehow it didn’t hurt as much anymore. They’d found each other, as they always should have.

"I know."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ship these two so hard that it is ridiculous.


	4. All is Harmed- fliclet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a small part of a larger novella written on Arya/ Aegon. This is based in part on similar sentiments from a story I wrote and never completed "Running to the Edge of the World". When its complete it will be paired with a Jon/ Arya novella. 
> 
> This is what would have happened if Aegon Targaryen was caught in Westeros long before he took Storm's End or marched to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys (following the show not books, post Season 7 Episode 3 ). He was caught by the queen's guard and sentenced to a life at the wall with his closest companion, for a crime they didn't commit. Jon Connington is long dead and at the wall, while befriending Bran Stark, he meets Morgana a woman that claims she is from the Neck. The Dragon Queen inevitably comes north when there is rumor of another living Targaryen (R+L=J is not yet known).

ALL IS HARMED....

“Are you going to die?” she whispered, scared for perhaps the first time since she ran bloodied and half dead through the streets of Braavos, fleeing her own assassin.

“Perhaps- we’ll have to just see now, won’t we?” Even the threat of being cooked to the bone in front of the houses of the North and a Dothraki army weren’t enough to discourage his terrible humor. The only problem was that she couldn’t help but smile, the bleakness of it's familiarly welcoming to her. 

“We don’t have to,” Arya started, the words rushing from her mouth without thought.

“Oh really?” lifting the shackles that encased his hands and feet Aegon smirked, “Is there some enchantment you know? It would be just like you to hide the fact that you know magic,” he quipped, trailing off with a half-smile.

“Well- not magic, per se,” Arya answered, turning her head for a moment before her face appeared again as Missandei. Chocolate curls spilled out from her skull, her tawny skin as beautiful as browned butter. With almost onyx brown eyes, she stared back at him.

Aegon’s mouth hung slightly agape as he involuntarily relaxed his guard for a moment, “I feel there is more you need to tell me about this time in Braavos,” he japed, finally.

“Another time,” Arya started, as she reached for a pile of tiny stones in the corner of Aegon’s cell that he’d never be to grasp at as tightly as he was tethered to the walls. “I could kill her, easy as I did many others,” Arya finished, dismissively.

When he didn’t answer, she prompted, “Aegon!” bluntly hitting his shoulder with the palm of her hand.

Closing his mouth, Aegon attempted to smile, “I’m almost scared by you and the things I don’t know, but still not. Arya Stark, you are a terrible burden to me.” It came tumbling out of him like a half-conceived confession.

“Me a burden to you?!” Momentarily losing track of their previous conversation, the face of Missandei stared back at Aegon as Arya continued, “You are the worse acquaintance I’ve made in my life. And I once traveled with a horde of known, rapists, murders and thieves.”

“Close friends of yours, My Lady?” Aegon japed.

“Dearer than you could know,” Arya snapped back absentmindedly, searching her person for a piece of cloth.

Clearing his throat, Aegon started, “At one time, I was trying to win a crown, Lady Stark.”

“You know I hate that name.”

“Indeed, I do. Just as I know you don’t want to hear what I must say next. But as a man that is soon set to potentially roast, I know now that I will never go to my grave with my full pride. And as such, I am burdened with telling this truth or else my life’s purpose won’t be met.”

Arya curtly laughed, looking up at him before continuing, “We do not have time for this, now as I was saying, I will wear the face of Missandei and slight her throat as she-”

“AS I WAS SAYING…” Aegon started, loudly cutting her off, “My life’s purpose… I was born, trained and have breathed every single breath of this life, lived through every single life trial to be king. Just as my father should have been before me.”

Arya was trying to take him seriously but at the moment, Aegon’s promises of his forthcoming coronation was too much for her to respectfully take seriously. He was chained in the dungeons of Winterfell, awaiting an inevitable roasting by the dragons of a less than rationale queen who saw him as a potentially fake relative but an assuredly direct threat to her thrown. However, even if he could at times be a complete idiot- Aegon was her friend and ergo her idiot that needed saving. Pulling her small blade from her boot, Arya drew it against the palm sized rock she had found, sharpening it for the task at hand as she exaggeratingly nodded her head at him, not hiding the fact that she was hardly listening.

“I don’t care about that anymore. The dragons, the crown, all of it. It all means nothing.”

“As I’ve been trying to tell, you- you fool. Winter is coming…” Arya replied, not taking her eyes from her blade.

“I realize that, now. I realize that the crown is pointless. Daenerys means nothing. I care not if the dragons burn me alive….”

“Well that is a little dramatic,” Arya quipped, smoothing her blade with the cloth before slipping it back into her boot.

Staring into the face of Missandei, Aegon cleared his throat, “Please take that off. I have something to say and I would prefer to not say it to the face of my soon to be killer’s, closest confidant.”

Sighing, Arya slowly peeled off the mask, “I told you, no one will be killing anyone. Unless it is me sticking the ‘queen’.”

“I have to live, Arya-”

“I’ve already told you that you will-”

“I have to live to help you save the north. That was my purpose,” Aegon finished exasperated. Even chained to a wall, awaiting certain death she couldn’t be bothered to give him a last much needed word.

“Good, I’m glad you are finally seeing reason. Now, as much as I enjoy hearing you tell me things I’ve already told you, I have a Khalessi to skin so-” sitting back on her heals, she began to rise when Aegon’s hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her back down to the icy stone floors of his cell.

“It’s you, Arya. I was meant to come here for you.” It was hardly a confession of any terribly revealing nature. In all actuality to anyone that would have be listening to their conversation it was ambiguous. It meant, nothing, in fact it could have meant a thousand things: he was meant to help her family, they were meant to be friends, she was meant to save him… the list could go on forever.

Unfortunately for Arya, she knew exactly what he meant. Quickly retracting her arm out of instinct, she would have love to have pretended that neither of them had, had that encounter.

“Don’t make me mummer's dragon, not when it matters most, Arya,” Aegon pleaded.

She scooted away from him then, the pair staring at each other in silence before Aegon continued, “You cannot kill, Daenerys.”

“Seven hells, I cannot,” Arya started, “She knows nothing of the war that is coming. She knows nothing of the White Walkers. She’s a fool herself, chasing after a Night King’s throne.”

“Exactly, Arya and that is why you cannot kill her. She knows nothing else and she needs everyone, not just Jon to explain to her what is coming. She needs you, Arya. Show her what you are able to see. Show her what we know is coming…. She is here for a reason. The dragons follow her and you need fire.”

“No, we don’t-” Arya started, but he knew were her mind was going.

“They may not be enough… there are countless numbers of them. And wolves bleed, they die just as you and I.”

“Not if I lead them,” she tried, but failed as Aegon retorted, “And what of Jon, Arya?” He started with the person he secretly knew she possibly loved most. And continued, “What of Bran and Sansa? Would you risk them on the chance that you could gather enough wolves to quiet the Night King?”

“I could try,” she attempted, unwilling to admit that she knew she was being foolish, that the whole thing was foolish. She couldn’t save Aegon, even if she did kill Daenerys. If it wasn’t fire, it would surely be a sea of white walkers that would take him. With teeth to skin, dead tongues to fresh warm blood, if her pack and the houses of the north weren’t enough, Aegon as would she and every person they had ever known, would surely befall the same gruesome icy death. 

“No worries, Zolka,” he smiled, calling her the Valyrian name he’d chosen for her, “You will surely be the death of me, Arya. I have no doubt, nor a regret. It just won’t be not tonight.”

“You surely will die,” Arya tried again, setting all joking aside.

“You doubt me, then?” Aegon smiled, but the smirk fell half short, as though he, himself was unsure. He may be Rhaegar Targaryen's only known living son, but that didn’t mean he would survive fire. Viserys was surely the only living son of the Mad King and he succumbed to a molten golden crown.

When Arya didn’t answer, Aegon continued, “If I should not survive the test, promise me something?”

Arya hated promises, he knew that. She couldn’t stand any proclamation for a future that they both knew wasn’t certain.

“If I die…” he smiled then, truly a grimace through his teeth as the heavy shackles settled again over the already bruised and seeping wounds from his wrists and ankles, “Promise me that you will take my body south. I don’t want to be buried away from my family.”

It was a strange request. No one knew where the remains of his mother and sister lay, his father likely sentiment at the bottom of the Ruby Ford.

“Lay me to rest in the gardens of Dragonstone.”

Crouching close to him now, Arya had allowed him to take her hand, “Yes, of course I will. No matter what she says, I’ll make sure that it is done. I’ll bribe Tyrion myself, if I have to,” Arya promised, taking in his words sincerely as the wishes of the dead.

“Good,” Aegon patted her hand for a brief second before continuing, “And promise me something else.”

“Of course,” Arya whispered, their faces now less than a foot from one another. He lifted his hand hesitating twice before touching her cheek. Aegon had never been a shy man. He’d known women in his life and most were more than amiable, swooning at the look of him. They'd become blushing, stuttering messes if he gave them the slightest amount of attention. But not Arya, she was different. She wasn’t someone to be toyed with. She wasn’t on his time, he was always on hers. Even now, when everything seemed to be coming to an end, he was waiting for her to accept him.

It was absurd, but it was them.

“Promise me you’ll love someone. I don’t care whom it is but he should let you be. Promise me that and promise me that you’ll try, Arya.”

“What are you rambling about, Aegon?! Good Gods, haven’t you any better request? What does all this matter anyhow?” Arya blurted out, half annoyed.

“Because I would have- Gods you’re difficult!” He stopped and laughed, “You are the most difficult woman, I’m sure, that has ever lived. You’re near impossible, really. Beyond approach… but I would have.” He stopped almost unsure and then continued, sincerer than ever, “Without condition and not because I wanted to, believe me. There are other women, many other women that are far more pleasing….”

If he was getting to a point this certainly wasn’t the way to go about it. Half exasperated, confused and utterly drained Arya was half ready to stand up and request the guard dictate his last words to be delivered to her on the morrow before he continued, “I would have loved you.”

The words hung heavy between them after he’d blurted them out. In fact, they sunk between the two of them like some now clearly visible ghost. The only problem was it didn’t feel as though it were just them experiencing it for the first time. Everything felt heavy with the same promise that had come decades before them. A kind of damned affection that had lead Aegon’s family spiraling to the brink of extinction and the entire seven kingdoms to what now seemed certain impending doom.

This was surely what Jon Connington had meant when he’d told Aegon no less than a thousand times to guard himself against enemies that were unknown. Aegon knew that Jon had a certain affection for his father, one that clouded his judgement of his mother but what of Lyanna? Was he right all along?

Aegon could still hear his words lingering in the recesses of his mind, “He died because he was foolish in whom he loved. Your father could never discern what was right from what was certain poison.” 

Was Arya poison? Surely Jon Connington would have hated her at first glance. For beyond even Aegon’s own known knowledge, Arya was the spitting image of Lyanna. Whether it was the Gods of the Seven, the Old Gods, the Lord of Light or more likely the Many-Faced God- coming to take his due once again from the Targaryen line, there was fate in their meeting. A certain kind of kinetic attraction that could not be avoided.

Aegon was simply the bug half willingly flying into this web. Perhaps this was how his father felt when he met Lyanna Stark- certain of its inevitable end but unwilling to stop himself.

Finally, she answered, taking her hand from his, “Then you would have been a fool,” the words tumbled from her mouth, quick and harsh.

“I know, Zolak,” he replied, reaching for her tunic and pulling her close before she had time to react. It wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be. In the dungeons of Winterfell, himself reeking from days of imprisonment, in a dank, dark room. But he was running out of time and wasn’t he a damned man regardless?

It was then, with less than seconds to spare as they could both hear the impending footsteps of Winterfell’s guards that Aegon kissed her. Without shame, pride of even a moment’s thought as to how he’d explain himself, he kissed Arya as though it was the last pleasant touch on in this world that he’d have. For surely it would be.

And in those rare few seconds, Arya allowed herself to kiss him back without hesitation or question. In that moment, she wasn’t any nameless face she’d worn in the brothels of Braavos when she’d allowed herself to be kissed for the first time, she wasn’t Arya Underfoot, No One or any other version of her pretend self. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and without question or regret she kissed Aegon Targaryen as though thousands of lives hadn’t bled and died for a similar sin.

She kissed him as she had promised him, she would.


End file.
